


Show

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Autofellatio, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mood last night to RP some porn, but it's me, so...yeah, obviously that ain't gonna happen. Instead, wrote this.  Tags say it all.  </p>
<p>If you're bored, guess who the Senator is, and then place bets how long till I write a sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show

“Really,” Deadlock said, sourly. “One day you’re gonna have to come up with a better set up. This is getting old.”

“And yet you keep showing up,” Turmoil said, placidly. “I would imagine you would approve of something so effective.” A beat. “Yet simple.” His orange optics glowed with the way Deadlock bridled under the slight.

“Got a fraggin’ war to fight,” Deadlock snarled. “Maybe you should concentrate on that.”

“And maybe you,” Turmoil said, moving to code the door locked, “should concentrate on your maintenance better.”

“What’s wrong with my slaggin’ maintenance?” The smaller mech’s outrage was palpable, like an aura around his EM field. Turmoil could feel it as he stepped closer, like a delicious foretaste of what was to come.

“You neglect…parts of yourself, Deadlock.” Turmoil reached around, his massive arm nearly dwarfing Deadlock’s spaulder as he stroked one finger over the other’s interface hatch.

“It’s not important.”

“I say differently. And,” the finger traced a lazy circle over Deadlock’s hip, “I can get a medic in here to agree. If you’d like…intervention.”

He didn’t have to sketch it out more than that. Deadlock knew him too well. Well, that part of him. Though he admitted, the idea of watching Deadlock forcibly overloaded by a technician had its appeal. And the way Deadlock stiffened at the thought boosted it a bit higher on his list. Next time. He’d have to do research for that. And besides, it would be a welcome anticipation for next time.

Besides, he’d thought this one through a great deal. He wanted to see it happen, to see if it matched up to his fantasy.

He expected it would.

“Rumor had it,” he said, conversationally, “that some buymechs on Cybertron, before the war, had a special…adaptation. For entertainment of others.”

Deadlock’s body was rigid in the arc of his arm, but he could feel the heat from the other’s EM field shifting against him, the sudden prickle of charge from under the interface hatch. Deadlock hated being reminded of that part of his life. Which, of course, was why Turmoil brought it up. Only at select and rare moments, though, lest it eventually dull its power. Just like in combat, the best weapon had to be deployed only judiciously.

The silence stretched and he could feel Deadlock fighting the urge to squirm against him. “Wasn’t for that,” he said, his voice choked, frustrated.

“Oh? Educate me, then, Deadlock.” Because he was going to stroke his broad hands over the other’s thighs until he got an answer.

Deadlock tried to twitch back, out of the reach of those splayed fingers, but it just bumped his aft against Turmoil’s thigh. Hardly an escape. “Transfluid.” He tried to shift again, and found his way blocked again by Turmoil’s chassis. “When you’re…starving.” The last word came out as a hiss, half-anger, half-arousal.

“I see,” Turmoil said, coolly. He know how his coolness fanned Deadlock’s heat. “Or, I’m going to see.” The chuckle didn’t have to be loud. Deadlock knew what he meant. And the ‘no’, pushed between furious dentae, was exactly the resistance he expected. Deadlock couldn’t just…give in. What would be the fun in that?

“I could make it an order.”

“You could shove it up your exhaust.”

“I want to see it,” Turmoil purred, knowing the vibration would carry right through his EM field, right through the interface hatch’s thin barrier. Deadlock couldn’t resist. Not for long. “Or I could come up with some alternative entertainment.”

It was merely a waiting game, and Turmoil felt a sure of triumph as Deadlock weighed the options. This, he knew. He must have done it before, with the way he talked about it. It was a known humiliation, at least. He knew he’d won—like there was any other outcome—when the smaller hand snaked under his, to release the interface hatch. Turmoil stepped away, because, well, he wanted a view. Deadlock’s face would be absolutely without price.

He could see the corner of Deadlock’s mouth twitch as he stepped away. “Need a table. Something to sit on.”

“Fair enough.” It wouldn’t do for Deadlock to fall over and get hurt. Not until Turmoil wanted him to, at least.

Deadlock crossed over to Turmoil’s desk, propping himself on it, his spread thighs framing the interface panel, the hatch open already, revealing his equipment. His spike had already stiffened, the cover spiraled aside, and Turmoil could already see the wet gloss of lubricant along its length. Perfect.

Deadlock wiped one hand down his thigh, before his fingers moved, finding two catches, or something Turmoil couldn’t quite see, and then the spike came off its mounting, cables and a thin hose tumbling out. Oh, yes, perfect.

Deadlock saw the heat in his optics and balked. “Seen enough,” he muttered, moving to put his spike back in its mount. But he was too far gone in need, and Turmoil, too, though he’d never admit it so clearly. He closed the distance between them, tugging Deadlock’s jaw up with one rough hand. “Someone’s spike is in your mouth tonight. Yours. Or mine. You choose.” His spike was more than eager to follow through, that wonderful heavy tingle of arousal. He could see it, feel it, already, the tightness of Deadlock’s mouth over his spike’s girth, the way the other’s jaw was stretched almost too wide open, the way his spike’s head would ram against the back of Deadlock’s throat, again and again before shooting its load of transfluid, hot and thick and so much that Deadlock would nearly choke on it.

Deadlock probably thought of it too, his face clouding. It would have been a lovely consolation prize, but this? This was new, and Turmoil did love novelty.

That settled, Turmoil stepped back, watching as Deadlock took the spike in his hand again, leading it to his mouth, settling in to watch.

***

Turmoil was right about one thing: he knew what would happen, every time, and still he came. Maybe, he thought, he was working off some bad conscience. Maybe it was proof he couldn’t get away from the gutters. Maybe it was about Gasket, somehow, some need to punish himself, degrade himself for having been the only one who lived.

It didn’t matter why, at least not right now, his aroused spike in his hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to put on a show, after all. He’d gotten his start, desperate for the circuit booster he’d clutched in his hand, and so when the security mech had brought it as a bargain—suck my spike and I’ll let you go—it had been impossible to refuse. He was so desperate for a hit, so desperate for food, that pride didn’t matter, and he’d swallowed any shame along with the hot rush of fluid into his tanks.

After that it was too easy, an easy way to get money, an easy way to get a little boost of energy. Transfluid wasn’t proper fuel, but a mech set to starving could metabolize it well enough.

And he’d decided if he was going to do it, he was going to learn to do it well, because there were scores of pathetic mechs, just like him, willing to do almost anything to survive. If he got good at it, the customers would choose him over them. And they’d choose him for this, rather than some of the…other stuff they did.

What better way to practice than your own spike? Feeling the way your glossa slides over the nodes, learning what feels good, learning how a mech on the cusp of overload feels, the slight tartness against the glossa, so you could stop, back off, to bring them to a harder release later. The harder the better, because it meant more fluid. Simple economics.

He’d done this before, enough times that the sting of humiliation was like a vapor of oxyacetylene on his desire. They wanted to see how depraved he could be? He would show them.

Even Turmoil.

He parted his thighs, looking up just long enough to register that Turmoil was watching, his optics lit with that sickish glow of lust, before Deadlock lowered his detached spike, pushing it just against the mouth of his valve, which spiraled open at the first touch. He shuttered his optics, so he could concentrate on feeling it, blocking out Turmoil’s massy presence as he pushed his spike into his valve, a perfect fit, feeling the mesh part, taking his spike in like a sheath, charge rippling over the mesh, calipers hugging the sleek, familiar contour of his spike. He gave the calipers an extra squeeze, shuddering as it sent feedback along his spike, letting his hips roll on the edge of the desk as he pulled his spike out, till just the head sat inside, resting against the valve’s rim, before pushing it back in again.

Turmoil gave an impatient grunt, knowing Deadlock wasn’t doing what he’d demanded, but not quite capable of bringing himself to tell him to stop.

Better not push that line too hard, though. The last thing he wanted was that spike Turmoil had unsheathed, which he was idly stroking in his huge hand, to get ideas where it should go. He pulled it out, slowly, with a little twist, the arcing friction just too damn good to resist, as he looked up to the other’s half-lidded optics, bringing the spike close to his mouth. “I like the taste,” he said, his voice husky, as he reached his glossa out to touch the spike’s tip, drawing a slow circle around it. His own lubricants were familiar to him, comforting in a sense, as was the almost-groan from Turmoil’s vocalizer.

He didn’t want to think about Turmoil right now. There were better places for his mind to go, right now. He could watch and know Deadlock could actually pleasure himself without him. Maybe even feel a little left out. Yeah, that was about as much as he wanted to think about Turmoil right now: left out, watching and not touching.

But he’d rather be thinking about other things, like that one Senator who’d hired him. Big mech, like Turmoil, but with a complicated, multichanger’s frame. He liked to have Deadlock—Drift, as he’d been then, the pathetic, desperate tweaker who would do anything if it got him off or some shanix—ride him slowly, hips tracing long slow parabolic arcs up and down, feeling the spike—as thick as Turmoil’s—slide in him, spread his valve’s lining apart, rocking it against the valve’s ceiling. He liked to do it after Drift had gotten himself off with his spike in his valve, so his spike was coated in Drift’s transfluid, leaving long silver streaks down its sides, around the baseplate. It seemed to last forever that way, the first overload ebbing slowly from Drift’s systems, building with an aching, delicious, decadent slowness to another one, one that would blast through his frame like a supernova.

He had so few moments of actual pleasure in his live that even that one stood out, a buymech, being used by a customer, but at least it felt good, at least he wasn’t treated like trash.

His spike slipped past his mouthplates, the head pushing into his mouth, glossa already seeking the sensitive underside, flicking against the lubricant slits, sucking the shaft, taking it in until he could feel the slender hose and the dense bundle of cables against his lipplates.

He wasn’t going to last too long, the memory and the way his glossa knew every inch of his spike, the long familiarity of testing, teasing himself, on top of the awareness, in the back of his mind, of Turmoil watching, the slick rhythmic slide of Turmoil jacking his own spike, pushed his arousal.

Deadlock rocked the spike in his mouth, tugging and shoving at the base, pinching the hose, a slow, driving pulse that let his glossa have free play over the surface, let the spike’s head slide against the back of his throat like a little tweak, sending a small tremor through his frame with each contact.

He picked up speed, pumping it into his mouth, his other hand hooking the rim of his valve, pulling up on it almost enough to hurt, a soft hum, half a whine, vibrating through his vocalizer, his whole body shuddering more and more rigid, thighs quivering, and he could feel the electrons impatient, pawing at the capacitors, burning and eager and begging for release, and he tried to push it back, tried to hold onto the edge of it just a little longer, keep a sliver of control, knowing he'd fail, let go, and tumble into overload.

It slammed into him, like a wave overtopping a wall, crumbling his resistance, his dignity, everything, and his body seemed to burst alight with pleasure, his spike throbbing in his mouth, with just the half-klik warning of feeling the hose jump against his fingers before his own transfluid spilled into his mouth, sweet and hot, and he sucked it down with an abandon Turmoil could only fraggin' dream of, his engine roaring under his chassis, harsh against the ache of his lit-up spark chamber, as the overload danced over it like coronal discharge. 

He felt the sudden hot rain over his face, his shoulders, as his overload had torn one from Turmoil, his own fluid spurting from his spike.  The droplets almost sizzled on his heated armor, sending a tang of ozone in the air, as Deadlock felt the overload start to withdraw, a ripcurrent tugging him sideways, keeping his optics half-lidded and sated. He pulled the spike from his mouth slowly, twirling the cable and hose around his fingers, giving the head one last final farewell lick, before he spooled it up, twisting and locking it back in place. "We done here?" His voice was steady enough, if velvet-raw from the transfluid he'd swallowed, savored, in his little performance. 

And for once, Turmoil was speechless, his vents buzzing and rattling to cool his systems. 

"Yeah," Deadlock said, snapping his interface hatch closed with a brisk efficiency. "Thought so." 

 

 


End file.
